


hope for redemption

by natdormers



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natdormers/pseuds/natdormers
Summary: Jasper, a creature born of blood and rage, being slowly torn apart inside by the emotions of others; Alice, a mystery with bloody eyes and uncontrollable visions of the future that flash through her mind  ―-  the story of how Alice and Jasper came to be and how they found their way home.
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So - TWILIGHT. It has been a hot minute since I last gave this fandom and their pairing a thought! But there's been a lot of time to revisit some of these moments and to find some motivation to actually put my impression of their story down on paper. This is pretty much totally canon but with a few minor tweaks here and there. I hope you enjoy reading and, if you can spare a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts!  
> Obviously, these characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I am just borrowing them for a little while.

**Prologue**

**Part 1: Jasper (1885)**

The night around me is dark and quiet, the most prominent sound coming from the fire that blazes in front of me. Obviously, my sensitive hearing can pick up other noises: the cicadas, the rustle of the leaves and even the fountain playing in the front courtyard of the mansion. But I tune those out and focus in on the fire, my body held as tense and rigid as a marble statue.

It has been burning for the best part of five hours now, stoked and encouraged by me. The flames leap and spit, sending golden sparks shooting into the sky. It could be beautiful – but it’s not.

The air in the courtyard is acrid, the stench of burning vampires impossible to disguise. I have burnt grass, lavender and sage in an attempt to conceal what I am doing but I can still smell my own crimes. I wrinkle my nose in disgust but make no move to cover it with my hand. Doing that would dull my sharpened senses, making me an easy target, and I have been in Maria's army for too long to do anything that stupid.

I may not be stupid, but what I am is exhausted from the intensely physical act of dismembering ten newborns one right after the other. Although my kind do not need sleep or rest in the traditional sense, the sheer savagery and viciousness that I rely on day in and day out leaves me with a heavy weight in my gut. Every week for nearly twenty-five years, this evening included, I have ripped other vampires apart, limb from limb, and tossed the pieces of them into the fire before turning immediately to perform the next kill. All of my victims have been approaching their year mark, slowing in battle and losing the ferocity that made them so useful, but if I am doing what I should why does it leave me feeling so strained and so weary?

Maria had given the order for tonight's bonfire. She had pulled me aside earlier in the day, when the sky was clear and cloudless and the sun scorching and when all of the other vampires were skulking inside away from its glare, to whisper her instructions in my ear. I had felt drained at the very prospect of it. Maybe Maria had sensed this, because she had slipped her hand into mine, smirked at me and tugged me to her bed. I had followed dumbly.

The few hours I had spent with her between those ostentatious silk sheets had been a distraction. Even now, I can think back to those moments and the sounds she had made when I twisted her long, black curls around my fingers and pulled, and it can take me away from this moment in time. A pitiful distraction, but a necessary one.

I have spent twenty-two years in Maria’s army. I fight on the frontline in every battle, dismember hundreds of newborns behind the scenes and ride the waves of everyone else’s emotions along with them. After each atrocity I commit, I am welcomed into her bed for wild, fierce sex that takes me further and further away from the person I once was. I don't know what I can do when I need all the distractions I can get, but those distractions only drag me more deeply into this mess.

My ears pick up the sound of footsteps coming from the mansion. Someone approaches behind me, not bothering to disguise the sound of their passage, letting out a long, low whistle at the size of the fire I have created.

“This is quite a bonfire,” Peter says as he draws level with me, tucking his hands in his pockets and appraising the scene.

I make a noise of non-committal in the back of my throat.

 _This was almost you_ , I think.

I don’t say it, though. Peter doesn’t need to know how close he came to feeling my strong hands wrenching his head away from his neck, ending his life and breaking the trust we have built up during our time in Maria's service.

“This was almost me,” Peter says, like he has read my mind. His voice cheerful and bright - surprising, considering he is discussing how close he nearly came to a brutal end. “Don’t look like that, Jasper. I know you used your Southern charm to save me.”

As he speaks, he reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder. He is grinning, his stance relaxed so it is clear he is not angry. Despite this, I immediately stiffen and then force myself to relax. Contact is something I dislike, for the most part. I don’t mind contact with Peter as much as I mind it with others, but it doesn’t come easy and, each time anyone so much as brushes against me, I am forced to stop myself from snarling. 

A side effect of being so long at war. 

“Well, I couldn’t do any of this without my second-in-command, could I?” I drawl in response. Pause. And then: “How did you find out?”

Peter snorts.

“For someone so intelligent, you can really be dense,” he tells me, his tone still easy. “I've been here for nearly as long as you. I know that you're the one who is always sent to deal with the newborns - and I see your face when you come back. It makes sense that you would have been asked to deal with me and intervened on my behalf. After all, what would you do without me?”

“Maria might have seen you as useful without my help,” I point out, ignoring his light jest.

“Good joke, Jasper,” Peter says with a low laugh.

We are silent for a moment, both of us staring into the dark heart of the fire. The branches snap and crackle in the intense heat and the smoke that gushes into the air still carries the hideous smell of burning bodies.

It’s a little better, though. The last traces of the newborns, the same ones I had taught to fight, urged on in battle and feasted with afterwards, are crumbling to ashes before our eyes. But their emotions – Lord, their _emotions_ – still cling to me. I can still feel the fear, panic and fury that had rolled off them when I had leaped at them, having lured them out into the copse of the thicket of trees at the west of the mansion. Those feelings are wrapped around my very bones.

“Come on,” Peter says, squeezing my shoulder again. I wonder if he can sense my despair. “You’re hungry. Starving, in fact, judging by the colour of those eyes! Let’s hunt. Let’s get away from this.”

I don’t take much convincing; I am desperate to escape this scene. We cut through the grounds of the mansion, me falling into an easy step beside Peter. We both know that somewhere behind us, in the white walls of the extravagant house, Maria will be planning her next attack. Or maybe lounging in her silks, celebrating the most recent victory we had won with her red eyes glowing with smugness. We will be missed.

The wrought iron gates are locked but we scale them with easy, vaulting to the ground on the other side and exchanging grins before we take off, heading towards the river. On nights like this, I remember why I love Houston. The trees are thick, allowing us to race as fast as we can without fear of being seen, and the river is a prime hunting spot. Groups of humans tend to flock to its banks under the cover of darkness, usually drinking and silly with it. One thing I have learnt is that alcohol makes them easy prey.

Away from the mansion, I feel the bleakness begin to leave me a little. The claustrophobia that I now associate with Maria and the life there is less extreme with each mile that I put between us. I can sense Peter’s own buoyancy at this small freedom and it bolsters me.

I overtake him with a spurt of speed, laughing at his exclamation. My boots kick up dirt, leaves and twigs with the pace I have set and the wind slaps my cheeks. We could be two vampires, travelling together, and enjoying our supernatural gifts.

Of course, the knowledge that I will soon have to return to Maria and my role as leader, teacher and destroyer doesn’t leave me. I am shackled to her because there is nowhere else for me to go and leaving would make her angry. No, not angry. Something stronger. Bitter, vengeful and vindictive. Even more so because it would be me who had betrayed her. 

I know full well that I am the only person who has stayed in Maria's favour for so long. No-one else has shown a gift like mine, one that is so valuable and so essential for controlling the troops, and then there is the physical attraction she clearly feels towards me. Sometimes, when she looks at me, the lust nearly chokes me. But, despite the fact that she currently needs me, I still know that I must be careful and not let my guard drop. If I leave her of my own volition, then I am a target who has signed my own death warrant. If she tires of me, she will have me killed and simply choose someone else to take my place in her ranks and in her bed.

Human scent catches my nose, distracting my from my train of thought. It's hot and heady, almost intoxicating. Acidic venom fills my mouth and my thirst flares at the back of my throat, searing. All thoughts of Maria fly from my mind as I focus on the hunt, lifting my nose to the air so that I can follow the trail.

Faster and faster, my feet carry me through the trees until I emerge beside the river. I pause, eyes scanning the scene. The river is low and muddy, smelling more stagnant than anything else. There are five of them, all male, standing ankle-deep in the river and laughing loudly. Easy, so easy.

Even easier when I see a cluster of empty green bottles.

“A veritable feast,” Peter crows when he reaches my side, his own eyes wild and his grin stretched wide.

We both lunge for them at the same time.

-:-

We make our way back to the mansion, sated and full, walking rather than running. The night is coming to an end: the tell-tale tinge of pink is colouring the horizon and the stars are beginning to fade. I have drunk until I am full, meaning I am wired with energy and strong enough to topple the cedar trees that make up the forest like dominoes. Although I feel physically replenished, my mood is black and the screams of those five men echo in my ears.

“There must be more to eternity than this,” I say morosely to Peter, who is scrubbing blood from his chin with the heel of his hand.

“More than the great victory we fight for?” Peter asks, the sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Not all vampires can live like this,” I continue as though he hadn't spoken. “It’s - the emotions, they just-”

I shake my head, unable to explain it. Peter has an understanding of how I can manipulate the emotions of others and a dim idea of how I soak up those emotions like a sponge, even if I don't want to. I say a dim idea because I don't think anyone truly realises what it is like to have to constantly monitor a room, to work out if you are feeling the way you are because of you - or because someone else is leaking that emotion out.

“Not all vampires do live like this,” Peter tells me quietly, watching my very closely now. We have slowed down to a near-human pace. The blood is still on his chin. “There are covens who live peacefully with each other and those around them, ones who don’t have any part in these wild wars. In any wars, in fact. There are also lone vampires who live in solitude. Up north, obviously. It just happens that this is an area torn apart by a battle for dominance. But it's not the normal way for our kind, you know. That's why Volturi keep having to come and shut us down when we make too much noise and draw too much attention. This is Maria’s chosen life and she’s dragged us into it with her.”

I turn Peter's words over in my head. The idea of being able to travel where you want, answerable to no-one but yourself, seems impossible. As does peaceful coexistence. How could people trust those around them not to kill them when their guard was down? How did they interact with others around them?

As well as the sheer bizarreness of the life he has described, Peter’s is dangerously close to criticizing Maria. Closer than anyone I have ever heard before. None of us speak about the life we lead with such bluntness and we certainly never discuss it in a way that suggests we are not satisfied with it. It has been clear to me, from the moment I woke up in this new life, that I do not have a say in this. I do what I am told and I make sure we win so that this life can continue. What I think - whether it is something I want to be a part of - is irrelevant.

I can also feel Peter’s anger: he is trying to suppress it and hide it from me, aware that I will be able to sense it. He's too angry to do this effectively, though: it bubbles beneath the surface, barely contained. There’s also an edge of fear, sharp and cutting, as though he is now wondering if he has said something to me that he shouldn’t have. After a beat, clearly deciding that he has started now and might as well go all in, he continues.

“I want to see that world,” Peter tells me, gesturing around the forest. “I’m tired of this life, of not knowing if each day will be my last and wondering when Maria will finally end me herself. I want to see more than Texas and I want to experience something that isn’t so- so-”

He searches for the right word to describe the horror we live each day.

“Barbaric,” I say softly, offering up the word that I use to describe my life each day. “It's a wonderful dream, Peter."

I mean it, too. But that's all it will ever be to me: a dream.

"I’m in too deep with all of this," I say, not even bothering to keep the heaviness from my voice. "But I would like to believe there is something more to our existence than this.”

-:-

**Part 2: Alice (1921)**

I am staring into black, black eyes: black as coal, dark and intense. Unreadable. Maybe even hostile.

No, not hostile. I’m certain about this because, when I take in his whole face, I can see that his lips are curved into a warm, genuine, slightly crooked smile. That smile transforms him.

I hold his gaze. Those eyes – so black and bottomless that I half fancy I am drowning in their inky depths – are framed by thick, golden lashes and are set in a moon-pale face. That face has a chiselled jaw and sharp cheekbones: classically handsome. I can see the myriad of scars that creep from beneath his shirt collar, marring that white skin with a series of crescent moon shaped marks. I want to reach out and touch the nastiest one I can see, on the underside of his jaw, and brush my fingers over the raised skin.

Who is he? Who am I?

I keep staring at him, waiting for him to speak. I can’t help but wonder if he is an angel. He could be; that beauty is ethereal, the kind I think only an angel or maybe a god would possess. The kind of beauty that should be documented in art so that everyone else can appreciate it.

I want to speak and ask him all of these questions that are cluttering up my brain - I am sure he has the answers, even if I am sure of nothing else - but I cannot open my mouth. I can't even move a muscle: my body feels like lead. 

But I don't need to because my angel is opening his mouth now, taking in a breath as he continues to stare down at me with a soft, wondrous expression on his face.

“Alice,” he says, his voice low and as soft as velvet, surprising me with the tenderness that bleeds into that one word.

Then, just like that, he is gone.

Instead of staring up into his perfect features, I am lying on my back and staring up at the canopy of trees overhead. The sky is completely hidden from my view, the foliage too thick to allow even a chink of light through. The leaves tell me that it is fall: they are the fiery, russet colours that mark the season. Some of them cling to the branches still whilst more layer the floor beneath me.

Now I can see that I am alone and - worse - I am outside. I stay very still, waiting for understanding or realisation to crash into me. To remember who I am and who loves me, to know why I am here and where here is.

Nothing comes. Apart from my angel's face, the memory of which I cling to, I have nothing. Slightly desperately, I cast around for something but all I can find is darkness. It is like someone has reached into my brain and sucked all of my memories, thoughts and knowledge clean out of my head.

“Alice,” I say quietly, repeating the angel’s single word and slowly rolling each syllable off my tongue.

It must be my name. It must be. It feels familiar somehow; the way my mouth wraps around the sounds tells me that I have said this name before on many occasions.

“Alice,” I say again to the trees. “Alice.”

I fall silent then, listening carefully to the woods around me. All of the sounds are sharp and easy to discern. I can even tell if they are miles away, and how many miles away they may be. To the east, I can pick up the the unmistakable sounds of a stream. I can hear the water cascading over the rocks and rushing along the stony stream bed. To the west, there are the sounds of a road; the rumble of engines and the friction produced between the tyres and the tarmac could be nothing else. Birds sing. The wind whispers.

Slowly, very slowly, I push myself up. I try to be careful and apprehensive, not sure if I am injured somehow, but my movements are fluid and graceful. Even more than that, I feel strong.

I feel strong, yet I am very aware that my own heart is as still and silent as a stone. And I am unfazed by this. Even without my own memories, I still know somehow that this is abnormal. Apprehensively, I press a hand to my chest and then, finding nothing there, two fingers to each pulse point.

Nothing. There is no steady beat of the organ, no blood rushing through my veins. I am unsurprised, though: it was foolish to try. My sensitive ears can pick out the vibrations made by an insect's wings half a kilometre north of me, as well as the thready heartbeat of the birds in the sky miles above my head. I would certainly be able to hear my own heart in my own chest if it was functioning.

My own still, silent heart. I don't need anyone else to tell me that there is something very wrong with me.

Experimenting, I take a deep breath in, sucking the air into my lungs. As if I needed any further confirmation, I can now see that I don't need to breathe either. Oxygen makes no difference to me. To make matters even worse, as soon as I part my lips, a fire ignites at the back of my throat.

It - this blazing, intense thirst - nearly cripples me. I am consumed by this desire to drink and drink and drink - drink until I am swollen and glutenous. Until I no longer feel this fervent need and until the thirst is gone. 

My hands fly to my throat, almost as though I think pressing down will stop this insane hunger. I can’t begin to describe how it feels. The best I can do is say that it’s primitive, primal and it terrifies me. It makes me feel like I am a monster.

I clamp my jaws together. No breathing for me then. It’s fine, it’s very clear that I don’t need it.

The next thing I look to is my own body, unsure of what to expect but knowing that I need to take stock. I can’t stop the shudder that ripples through me when I see myself for the first time. My skin is white, as chalky as the angel’s skin in my vision, and it only seems paler when seen in stark contrast to the autumn leaves that blanket the ground beneath me. My hands and feet are small and black with dirt, whilst my dignity is (barely) covered by what seems to be a tattered, dirty grey pillowcase.

If I had any memory of my life and how I came to be here, I might have felt less shame and revulsion. I might have had an explanation for my condition.

But I don’t. Seeing how filthy I am disgusts me and makes me want to hide away, even though I am already alone. If my heart still beat and blood still coursed through my veins, I would have blushed. I do know, however, that I need to wash away the grease and grime that coats my skin.

“Wash,” I say to the forest, not quite able to string words into complete sentences yet. “Stream.”

-:-

Finding the steam is easy.

My hearing is more accurate that I could have ever imagined, even from the moment I opened my eyes. Following the sound requires minimal effort from me. I don’t make a conscious decision to run, but it feels natural to do so anyway and I feel momentarily elated when my feet almost fly over the leafy forest floor. The trees blur past me but I am unfazed, barely even needing to look to know where I am going.

Although I knew the stream was in the distance, it takes me moments to arrive at the water's edge and I plunge into the stream without pausing.

It feels so good to be clean. I try not to think about the unholy amount of dirt that I scrub from my skin, nor by the amount of force I have to use to do so. It's a long process, though. Years and years of muck seem embedded beneath my nails and in my hair, as well as in the cracks and crevices of my body. I am fully focused on my task – so focused that I don’t hear them approach.

When I flip my head back from rinsing my hair, the smell catches in my throat and that fire blazes once more. I can smell something delicious, something that is making me practically salvate, something that makes that thirst and the desire to feed cloud my mind.

Instinct takes over.

My lips back into a feral snarl that reverberates from my chest as acid floods my mouth. I drop into a low crouch, thoughts of being clean long gone as I ready myself to pounce. My eye narrow as I hone in on my prey: a young couple, traipsing hand in hand through the woods. A tiny, rational part of me wants to have a good, long look at them but I can’t think straight. I am no longer in control of my own actions, but rather the haze of hunger has taken over. I can’t think of anything apart from how good they smell.

I should have realised that I had no chance of stopping myself.

Still acting without conscious thought, I take the man down first. My lunge sends him to the ground with so much force, my body slamming into his, that he cracks his head against the rocks on the stream-bed and moves no more. He doesn’t even know what has hit him and he is still laughing, even in death.

Without even taking a second, I wheel around and hurl myself at his companion. My teeth are at her throat before she can scream.

Hot, sticky blood dribbles down my chin and drips down the front of my grey rags as I feed. The blood is refreshing, calming my hunger and soothing that feeling in my throat. I keep drinking deeply until her body is drained and deflated, sagging uselessly in my arms. Then, I cast her aside as I turn back to the man, still half-submerged in the water, and proceed to drain him too.

Afterwards, when the bloodlust has passed, I sit by their cooling bodies with a sense of horror unfolding deep within me. I don’t know what just came over me but something tells me that it will happen again and I will be just as powerless to stop it. The thirst will make me a beast, one that cannot be tamed.

Irrationally, I long for the angel from my vision to be by my side. Just so that I could have someone to talk to, to tell me what is happening. Who I am. What I am doing here. Why I just behaved the way I did. Why I am sitting here, half-naked and alone. I think of his black eyes, black eyes that seemed to be so old. He must have the answers. He must.

“Alice,” I whisper, looping my arms around my pale knees. “Alice.”

The temperature drops and, although that doesn’t bother me, I still realise that I need to move from here. I’m sitting next to two bodies with my teeth marks at their necks: I need to get as far away from them as I can. If someone else comes, if that thirst takes over again, then I could end up sitting on a pile of corpses, all of my own making.

For the second time today, I pick myself up from the floor. This time, I yank my wet grey rags from my body with enough force that the fabric tears in two. Completely naked, I wade into the stream to wash myself all over again.

It takes me just as long to bathe, to siphon the blood from my face, hands and arms. The stream no longer runs clear and crystalline, but instead is the colour of rust.

I keep my gaze neatly averted from the two corpses that I have left on the bank as I wash myself thoroughly. I deliberately don’t look at them, don't think of them, until I am completely clean. It’s only then that I approach, ignoring the man completely, as I kneel down beside the woman.

She is – was – beautiful: dark hair is swept into an elegant bun and her eyes are cornflower blue. She is paler now that she is bloodless and the marks of my teeth look even more gory. My interest lies in her clothes, however: they are expensive, probably made for her rather than purchased, and definitely not suited to hiking.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I unfasten the ties of her silk dress.

When I pull the fabric over my head, the feeling of the silk slithering over my skin is like a dream. It's soft and smooth to the touch, so much so that I rub it between my fingers with near reverence. I’m still slightly damp so the dress does cling to me slightly and it hangs to my ankle, rather than mid-calf as it had on its previous owner, but it’s a significant improvement.

I consider putting the dead girl in the remains of my rags but that feels even more disrespectful than killing her and abandoning her body. Instead, I step over her corpse, raking my fingers through my hair as I do so.

Vaguely, I wonder where the angel is and if he knows me. If he can tell me what I am.

“Alice,” I say again, softly this time, more to admonish myself and my runaway thoughts than anything else.

I’m being whimsical and fanciful and I don’t have time for that. I need to get away, to put as much distance between this bloody scene and myself, and to pray that I don’t encounter another person as I go. Apparently, judging by my actions in the last few hours, I have no self-control in these matters.

Without a backward glance, I run, as quickly as I can, into the depths of the forest.


	2. Chapter 1: Jasper (1895)

**Chapter One  
** _Jasper –- 1895_

Another night, another battle, another victory.

At this point in my life as an immortal, my memories of humanity are fast fading: they lack the clarity of the recollections I have in this new life, but even though my human days seem colourless and faint to my now more-sensitive eyes, I know that, as a human, I loved competition. I know I was the loudest in games and races against friends, families and strangers, pushing for victory in earnest and basking in the glow of it when I triumphed.

Even when Maria first turned me, sinking her sharp teeth into my neck and swearing that we would rule the South, I was still bolstered by the glory that comes with triumph. To begin with, I would come alive when I was fighting. I was brave and fearless: I trained hard, fought harder and rode the waves of success with an elated pride. After those battles, I would go to Maria and provide her with all of the details, knowing that she would clap her hands together with delight before leading me to her bed. It had made my head spin.

I have lost all of that now. I no longer seek challenges to prove that I can win and I no longer celebrate the battles and the victories. The fights are no longer thrilling, but rather I arrive to perform my part and leave when it is over without any sense of excitement. I now spend my nights trying to block out the memories of the battlefield, reading book after book and pacing a hole in the floor. Needless to say, I am no longer proud of myself.

Even training the newborn army drags. When I start my work with them, they are only just turned, something which makes them too impulsive and half-savage with it; towards the end, as they approach the year mark, they become arrogant and smug – tiring in a different way. It is then, when they think they are untouchable but, in reality, when they are no longer _useful_ , that I lead them outside and tear them to pieces, enduring the frantic rollercoaster of emotions they ride in their last moments of this life.

More recently, Peter has joined me in the grisly task of disposal. His presence does provide a small comfort. We perform our duties without speaking, both of us drowning in the sense of horror at our own actions, and then we go on long runs, the kind that make your muscles ache. Sometimes we race each other along the river and sometimes, on bad nights, we head deep into the desert. If we can’t avoid it, we hunt. If we aren’t so hungry, we sit quietly and look at the moon. His presence soothes the ragged edges of the borrowed emotions that wear me down. 

Today our win was a significant one. We triumphed over the Tulsa coven – a new and fierce contender in the battle of dominance in the South. They had somehow acquired at least five members – mature members, too – who had a host of impressive powers. Weather control was the biggest issue we faced, something we have never had to content with before. One of their new commanders had spent most of his time whipping the once gentle breeze into a frenzied storm and sending sheets of rain to blind us.

In spite of that, we took them down. Even better, we only lost five newborns whilst the Tulsa coven suffered heavy losses and we took down their general.

It was me who lead the charge. It was me who returned to the sprawling house in the heart of Texas to relay the story to Maria. Sitting in her beautiful white and gold parlour, she had been like a cat who had got the cream. Her own pride was palpable, the emotion hitting me with the force of a brick wall. In light of this, it had taken me a few minutes to notice the unease that prickled me and another few moments to realise that it wasn’t my own.

No, that sense of fear oozed from pretty little Lucy, seated to Maria’s left and smiling brightly whilst twisting her skirts between her fingers.

I should have told Maria then and there, or at least as soon as we were alone. I should not have kept it to myself until now, when I perch like a strange bat on the sill of the round window in my room. Maria had been so smug, so insistent of getting me alone for _my reward_ as she called it, that I had had the opportunity to warn her. But I didn’t.

I’m not sure why: I think, I knew deep down that telling Maria would old divide the ranks of the army even further, making my task near impossible. There’s already dissent there – I can feel it all too well – that runs deep. We have a handful of commanders who were too useful to be destroyed after their impressive newborn strength waned. They watch Maria – and me, by default – with guarded expressions that clearly show their lack of trust. And then there are some openly hostile lieutenants, only here because there is nowhere else for them to go. Due to our strength and our territories, leaving for another coven would essentially be a suicide mission and so they stick with us, but use their sullen and disrespectful attitudes to show how little they like it. This is something else that I have not told Maria, that I have kept to myself.

Only a few years ago, I worried that Maria would grow tired of me and would dispose of me. Now, I know that, beyond her initial charm, she has little to no people skills and does a poor job of keeping her promises. The first and foremost reason she keeps me so close is that she has not found anyone who can do what I do. Yet. Until she does, I am safe - or as safe as I can be – and I have to walk the fine line of keeping her happy and keeping everyone else around me on my side, just in case.

I tip my head back towards the sky, closing my eyes. It’s a clear, still night and the air is thick with different smells: cicadas, oak and cedar trees, brine and the earthiness of the river. Overriding all of this is the heady scent of blood, coming from the hundreds of humans who have been lured into the mansion under the guise of waiting on a formal dinner, hosted by Maria for us.

In reality, they are the meal.

Obviously, they do not know this. Their excitement and apprehension fizzes up from the floors below, penetrating all the way to my small attic quarters.

Maria hates my insistence on this room. She calls it _the servant’s quarters_ obstinately, not even referring to it as _Jasper’s room_. I like it, though. Up here, it is quiet and secluded, far enough away from the others that I can have some peace from the feelings that the other vampires do not contain. It gives me the space to be alone.

Sighing, I grasp the sill and drop down onto my bed. It is something else that I don’t need, but I do like the comfort of lying on it, watching the sky change colour through the window. Sometimes I read: I have amassed an impressive selection of old books for pilfering various houses.

I am running very late for this soiree, something that will needle Maria.

My thoughts are still racing, thinking about Lucy and her fidgeting fingers, as I reach for the nearest shirt and yank it over my head without thinking. Pain flares in my side and I hiss in pain. My knuckles have grazed the newest addition to my collection of bite marks: a souvenir from today’s battle, imprinted into my skin for eternity. A newborn had managed to get close enough to catch me at the waist, where the skin is softer and more sensitive.

Clenching my teeth, I pull the dark cotton of my shirt aside once more to assess the damage. I try not to look at my chest often, as the sight of the patchwork quilt of scars that is my torso is unattractive to say the least. Despite the mess of scars that I see, I can still easily identify the newest mark. Luckily, I am not missing a chunk of flesh or anything too gory but there is the clear imprint of teeth, marking the spot from which the pain radiates.

One might expect, after all this time and all of my scars, that I would be used to the venom.

With another sigh, I let the fabric drop and carefully button my shirt up to my neck. Avoiding my waist, I tuck the shirt neatly into my trousers and square my shoulders. What is another scar on my body, really? These wars have ruined me inside and out, there’s no denying that, so a little more surface damage is nothing.

My mind has wandered now, back to the moment I acquired the bite. What had happened to that newborn?

I think back to the rain that near blinded me and the sharp fire that had ignited when teeth had sunk into my skin. It had been a girl, her eyes two bloody slits. I had, instinctively, snapped her head away from her neck. She had been riding the adrenaline rush of battle, not focused or tactical enough to realise what I wound inevitably do. I am all but desensitised to killing like that, when the victim doesn’t have time to feel true terror. She didn’t even know what was happening.

So much has happened in such a short space of time. The last thing I want to do is go downstairs and be Maria’s plaything. And yet I must.

With a determined set to my jaw, I take one last long look at the moon. It is a sliver of silver tonight, a delicate curl in the sky. Staring at that image, I carefully get my lethargy and my despondency under control. I cannot let my own feelings seep out of me to colour the mood of everyone else and I certainly cannot let it show on my face. It’s more than my life’s worth to spoil Maria’s party.

If I have learnt anything in my time here, it is, despite the steely skin, razor-sharp teeth and other such predatory features, the fragility of my own existence. Sure, vampires could theoretically live for all of eternity. But here, embroiled in wars that never seem to end and acting as executioner to hundreds of my kind, I know that one wrong move and it will be me burning in the bonfire.

-:-

“Jasper,” Maria all but purrs when I enter her parlour, suited and booted for the occasion.

“Maria,” I return, lifting one of her pale hands to my lips.

She is alone, sprawled across a velvet chaise lounge with her skirts, which are the exact colour of blood, arranged around her. She looks up at me from beneath her dark lashes, her eyes gleaming.

No, I am wrong. One human boy is in attendance, hovering in the shadows with a bottle of wine clutched in his hands. Foolish child: that expensive Syrah will never be drunk and Maria isn’t even holding a glass to play along with the charade. He hasn’t noticed this detail, however, because his eyes are glued to her body.

I am not surprised, though. Her cleavage all but spills over the low neckline of her dress and rubies glow are her throats, her wrists and ears. She looks like sin.

“You look dazzling,” I tell Maria, careful to sound reverent rather than reserved.

Maria follows my gaze to the boy, whose grip on the bottle slips as he realises we are both staring at him. He blushes, the blood staining his cheeks red, and my nose flares. I must admit that I am incredibly thirsty.

Maria chuckles at my reaction and beckons the boy over with a sultry smile. He comes unquestioningly, transfixed by her beauty.

“Sit,” Maria says, enticing but with the steel of command. “Sit.”

I don’t know if she’s talking to me or the boy – it could be either and so we both obey. The boy sits on the floor at her feet, still hanging onto the wine and looking up at her with enchanted blue eyes. I perch beside her, crushing the silk of her skirts and making her frown at me.

“What’s your name, sugar?” Maria asks him, twitching her skirts away from me before beginning to finger her necklace.

Her excitement is climbing higher and higher, as is the boy’s - both for very different reasons.

“David, Ma’am,” he tells her eagerly.

“Why, David, you look mighty flushed,” Maria gushes, leaning in even closer so that her nose is close to his cheek. “All the excitement, I think.”

I can smell the boy from where I sit too and my mouth is watering. I’m surprised Maria hasn’t already ripped his throat out: it’s taking every ounce of my self restraint to keep me in my seat.

 _It’s probably my fault_ , I think dazedly. Of course I feel like this. I’m _thirsty._ I haven’t fed properly for a while now, mainly preying on people who are so black-out drunk that they don’t feel death and so I don’t drown in their suffering as a consequence. This boy, however, is very alive and very alert and I will feel every single emotion that he endures. I know it and I know I will regret it – and yet when confronted by his blood, I will not be able to stop myself.

“Jasper,” Maria whispers, turning her face up towards me. “Go on. Another treat for you.”

I wish I had more willpower, I really do. I wish that I didn’t give into this bloodlust so easily every single time - but I don’t let her tell me twice. My teeth clamp around the boy’s wrist before I can even think about what I am doing and I am gulping down his blood like it is my last meal on this earth. To my right, Maria chuckles darkly and then fastens her teeth to his jugular.

Feeding together like this is messy and only made worse when the boy’s horror crashes into me. His eyes go wide and he attempts to thrash, the bottle hitting the floor and smashing into a thousand pieces of green glass. Red wine seeps across the creamy carpet, just like the blood that we are draining from him.

We hold him in our iron grasps until he crumples and lies very still. Even though his emotions make me feel physically ill, nauseous and unsteady, I don’t stop drinking until there is nothing left in him to drink.

Maria makes a low sound of pleasure in the back of her throat as she releases the body, which hits the floor with a sickening _thump_. I feel like we should move him from the wine and glass he has landed in but I know that Maria will see that as a weakness on my behalf.

“What a _delightful_ aperitif,” Maria tells me, licks the blood from her lips with her pointed tongue. “I feel ready for our evening of fun now.”

She reaches out, cupping my face in her hand. Her eyes gleam crimson, vivid in her pale face. When she kisses me, all I can taste is blood.

“Come on, Jasper,” she commands when she pulls back, her voice suddenly sharp. “Smile. We are on track and you need to remember that. We are going to rule the South.”

“We sure are,” I say automatically, fixing a smile on my face. 

Maria beams. She is so easy to please at times, not noticing how wooden my words are nor how artificial my smile is. All I have to do is obey her commands, acting like the puppet she sees me as, and her anger passes. I know my responses now, the words I am expected to say, and I play my part well.

“I do have a _little_ job for you, before you can join me at the party,” Maria continues, dropping her hand from my face and letting it rest on my thigh. “There’s a newborn next door, enjoying herself. Charlotte. She’s not quite at the year mark, but – _well_. You know how it is sometimes. Get rid of her. And then you are _mine_ for the evening.”

The promise is clear on her face and I understand that I will be in her bed tonight, whether I want to be or not.

“Ma’am,” I say, inclining my head.

I kiss her hand once more before I leave, ducking out of the French doors and onto the patio outside. Not for the first time, I wish I could do what humans do and just throw up. The boy’s blood – I cannot call him by his name, not after what I just did – is heavy in my stomach. I close my eyes for a moment.

Outside, it is warm and muggy but still refreshing after the thick smell of the blood in the parlour. I inhale deeply, breathing in the immediate smell of the grass beneath my feet, the clay-like mud, the mould that clings to the rocks and the slightly stagnant water in the fountains. I focus on identifying each scent carefully and, when I feel calmer and more in control, I make my way to the copse of trees to build the bonfire that will burn another young girl to ashes.

It doesn’t take long to construct: I am well practised in assembling and lighting these things. I deliberately do it a little deeper into the thicket than normal, further away from the house so that I do not draw the attention of those inside. I think it is best for everyone that they do not know the horrors of what happens out here.

Fire ready and jaw set, I head back into the ballroom. It is packed with vampires, all high on today’s events and making the most of it as they dance and mingle, with no idea of the gory death that is in their future. Some of the human waiters are already dead, emptied and ditched in corners; those who have yet to meet their end have been plied with wine and are glassy-eyed. A clever tactic - drown their blood in alcohol and make them pliable.

I catch sight of Charlotte easily. She is near the doors, dressed in pink silks. At the sight of her, my resolve weakens slightly. She is a pretty little thing and sweet, once even helping me bandage a nasty wound on my back. She didn’t tell anyone about it either, something that I am still grateful for. Too sweet for this life, I know, but Peter was quick to spot this and coach her, instructing her on how to survive the ranks.

It was borrowed time though. It all ends here.

“Evening, Charlotte,” I say smoothly, sliding my arm through hers. “You look beautiful tonight.”

I mean my compliment this time.

“Thanks, Jasper,” Charlotte smiles up at me, squeezing my arm. “You look very handsome too. Are you alright?”

Only Charlotte – only someone so sweet and kind and well meaning – would ask such a stupid question. Only Charlotte would look up at me with an expression on her face that shows that she actually cares about my answer.

“Good,” I reply, sending a wave of calm over her. Immediately, she leans more heavily against me. “Shall we go outside for a while?”

I am already leading her as I speak, not waiting for her reply. It’s easier this way, to single the newborn out and remove them with a quiet, polite suggestion whilst twisting their emotions to make sure they come willingly and without a scene. Away from the ballroom, they can make as much noise as they like but I cannot let them shatter the celebratory mood in here.

“What a gorgeous evening,” Charlotte says happily as I guide her down the steps. “Don’t you just love looking up at the sky when it looks like this?”

My eyes flicker upwards too, as though I haven’t spent a good three hours watching the moon from my attic room with the intensity and interest of a demonic wolf. She’s right, though. Stars are sprinkled across the deep navy backdrop, like sequins on velvet. I could happily stop and pick out all of the constellations, both the ones I learnt when I was a human and the ones I have taught myself in the days since my change.

“I sure do,” I agree amiably.

We skirt the fountain, ambling slowly as though it is all I want to stroll beneath the stars. I am careful to dull any unease that might prickle in Charlotte, monitoring her mood carefully as we reach the trees and tread the path towards the bonfire.

“Where are we going?” Charlotte asks, her voice suddenly sharp when she catches the unmistakable smell of burning.

Before I can open my mouth, to start my well-practised explanation, we both hear the unmistakable sound of someone racing towards us, running at full pelt. We wheel around as one, both instinctively taking up defensive positions as I release my hold on her, but it is only Peter. Peter sprinting, running harder and faster than I have ever seen him, so that he crashes into _me_. Our chests slam together with a sound that is more like an avalanche of rocks than anything else.

Winded, I stagger backwards and snarl at him.

“ _Peter_!” Charlotte cries, her hands going to her face in horror.

“Charlotte!” Peter roars, lunging for me again and pinning me against a tree. This close, I can see that his eyes are wild with panic, the same panic that pulses from his entire being. “Run! _Run_!”

Charlotte turns to me with wide, horrified eyes and looks at me for a very long moment. I stare back, not even bothering to fight Peter off. I’m not sure I want to live with myself if I hurt him, as weak and feeble as that might make me. What a sorry excuse for a soldier I am. I shrug my shoulders helplessly at her, in a futile gesture of apology.

This is all Charlotte needs. She pivots on her heel and takes flight immediately, her pink dress a flash of colour that makes her stand out in the darkness.

I wait for the sound and sight of her to be swallowed by the shadows before I shove Peter off me, with enough force to make him stagger backwards. His attention is held by Charlotte and the path she has just taken and it makes him sloppy.

“What the hell, Peter?” I snarl, rubbing the column of my throat, where he had pressed his elbow.

“You were going to _kill_ her,” Peter hisses, furious.

Keeping just out of his reach, I give him a long, searching look. I have never seen him look so angry. Just like that, everything clicks into place: Peter’s caution around me lately; how he has been keeping his emotions in line; his protectiveness of Charlotte and those extra _training_ sessions. I have been so blind – preoccupied with everything else that I am trying to contend with.

 _Stupid_.

“Oh, Peter,” I say heavily, sitting down at the foot of the tree he had pinned me to only moments ago and lean my head against the bark. “How long? Three months?”

“Just over,” Peter admits, still looking off into the distance in the direction that Charlotte had gone. “I love her, Jasper. A bit like you and M-“

“If you finish that sentence, you are more idiotic than I originally thought,” I interrupt flatly, my words far harsher than necessary. “Maria doesn’t know what love is. Although, having said that, I’m not sure that I do either.”

I appraise my friend as he sinks down to a crouch in front of me – my fiercest, most loyal, most solid friend. The one person who I have been counting on each day to make my life here manageable. Back when Maria had wanted to cut him from the list of soldiers, I was the one who pleaded his case for the selfish purpose of wanting to keep him with me, too scared of what my days without him might look like. And now, despite my cruel words and despicable actions, he still reaches for me with concern and care in his dark eyes.

In one, smooth movement, I rocket back up to my feet. Peter, now at a tactical disadvantage, looks up at me warily. He doesn’t know what I am going to do.

“Go on,” I tell him, my voice resigned. “Go after her. Find her and go and experience whatever you can. I— I wish you the best of luck.”

“Jasper-“ Peter begins, rising and trying to get me to look at him properly.

“ _Go_ ,” I hiss, cutting him off before he can get very far.

Not taking his eyes off me, Peter takes three steps backwards. I can sense his turmoil and the indecision that churns in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t seem to want to leave me, but I also know that he will.

“I’ll miss you,” Peter tells me quietly, his words genuine and his eyes sad.

Then he too turns sharply and streaks off, leaving no sign of his presence behind apart from the lingering smell of sandalwood. I am alone again, with only a bonfire blazing and my own misery for company.

-:-

Maria is waiting for me when I return, the sweet smell of the smoke clinging to my jacket and hair. I am now calm, carefully composed, and I have buried my own loss deep within myself. So deep that I feel shut off and hollow, as though I am a wooden, artificial version of myself. 

“Where _have_ you been?” Maria demands, her irritation clear on her face.

Her anger is hot and her face is a tight mask. I bow to her, making the gesture as deep and low as possible, before stepping closer to her. I don’t miss how her immediate reaction is to wrinkle her nose slightly at the way I smell.

“Taking care of things,” I say, my voice soft. “I’m afraid Peter didn’t take too kindly to his favourite newborn’s sudden end. I had to burn him, too.”

Maria blinks slightly, surprised at my words. I arrange my face into a tight, bitter expression with ease, as though I really have just ripped my best friend apart. I am bitter. Bitter about being alone with _her_.

“Well,” she says, her surprise clear and mingled with satisfaction. She doesn’t even try to hide it. “It’s no great loss, is it? Peter was growing rather, well, _dull_. You need a bath, my dear, but first… I saved another one for you.”

It is taking all of my concentration to keep my own feelings locked down, to stop myself letting my fury and resentment spill out. I barely look at the girl in the corner, trembling violently. Her waitress’ uniform is crumpled and the apron splattered with someone else’s blood. Her fear when I glance, disinterested, at her leaps even higher and her heart sounds like it is stumbling.

I clench my teeth. I don’t _want_ her. Not this child, whose tangible terror will poison me on the inside, and certainly not Maria, who is looking at me like she might devour me. But it’s not about what I want. I know that I must have both of these things, as unpleasant as I might find them, in order to keep up appearances. After all, what else can I do?

As if she can read my thoughts, Maria leans in closer.

“Hurry up and enjoy your dinner, Jasper,” she purrs in my ear, repeating her promise from only an hour earlier. “After you’ve finished, you’re all _mine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, second instalment! I hope you enjoyed seeing Jasper's perspective on what is happening in Texas. Poor little blonde baby is not a happy camper! Next chapter will be Alice and how she adapts from her unusual start to immortal life. Comments and kudos are so welcome!  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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